


What Only We Can Know

by spicedrobot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: As always ask for tags, M/M, Robot Sex, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Wire Play, quid pro quo, weird angst i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 11:49:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18659839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: A moment years in the making gives Maximilien exactly what he wants. Doesn’t it?





	What Only We Can Know

There is a certain poetic justice to the situation: a pesky strike team face-off so much like that day in Havana, but this time he's not running. Some would call it fate, but they sell him short, always, always. The accountant. The crony. He cannot play the tables, but the games he can play he endeavors to be the best.

He takes them in, agent Mercy, just as beautiful but for the dreadful circles beneath her eyes, the gorilla next to her, posed so very stiffly. Comms to their young leader were cut as soon as they infiltrated the building; he imagines Tracer is trying in vain to re-establish the connection. Then, of course, there is Shimada Genji. Years later, he can still recall the cool steel balanced at his struts, the hot bite of electricity much like an omnic’s but tinged with something undeniably human. Foes that had not only captured him once, but had taken out Doomfist, for all the good it did them; the man back among their ranks and twice as deadly, sharpened by years of planning and training in prison. Much like Max himself. Patience and a long memory are things they both share.

It leaves only the one behind the glowing green of the cyborg. A familiar sight, he had watched and studied him enough in feeds and intel reports. The omnic is smaller in person, unplated and more exposed than even the most basic of their models. More than meets the eye, indeed.

"How nostalgic," Max says. "It has been far too long."

He draws his hands together, optics sliding over each in turn. How they stiffen. How they frown. A festival of the senses.

"Now, now. You don't seem pleased to see me."

"What do you want, Maximilien?"

"Perhaps a little more enthusiasm?" Max begins to pace. Gloating is quite rude, but if one does not take such joys as they appear, life would be very dull indeed. "Pay no mind to my entourage. A little insurance, you understand."

The heavy assault units behind him move not an inch, but their presence is undeniable, casting the room in half-baked twilight. They may not kill everyone, but kill they would. And Max knows how pathetically Overwatch struggles to keep their numbers, small as they are.

"You were a pleasure to work with before. I am not so unwilling to do so again if I’m granted another favor, hm?"

"Name your demands," comes Shimada's modulated hiss, and Max stills at the sound despite himself.

"Not demands, Mr. Shimada," Max takes a few steps toward him, stands at full stature so the cyborg has to tilt his chin to look him in the eye. "The years without Overwatch have been good to you. Or perhaps it was more than your peaceful sabbatical."

He draws his eyes over the cyborg's shoulder to a flickering cyan array, reading him, perhaps, as none in their presence could. What machines can say without words, without faces, each twitch, each motion, a give. Max draws out a poker chip from his pocket, grooves smooth and familiar, and rolls it between his fingers.

“I wish for an audience with you, Master Tekhartha.”

And just as the chip flips from pinky to ring, the omnic responds as quickly.

“You have it.”

“Privately,” Max says.

“Master, you can’t—”

“Genji.”

How delightfully the cyborg heels with a single word. Chastened.

“Nothing sordid awaits him. There are simply things that only machines such as ourselves can understand. One longs for similar company.” And he cannot quite keep the bite out of his voice, smoothing it into something palatable and amused again. How one can forget himself.

“They will remain unharmed,” Zenyatta says.

“They will.”

“Zenyatta, you don’t have to do this.” Angela.

“This encounter will be mutually beneficial, I assure you.” Max palms the chip, slides his thumb over the engraved side before slipping it into his pocket.

“Shall we?”

* * *

He had picked out the location, of course. There’s always the possibility of wasted work, but if the pieces should fall into place, one must be prepared. The office is small but furnished to his taste, dark wood and darker leather, warmly lit. He had entertained the idea of something more intimate, but it seemed in bad taste considering his reverent company.

For all that he is helpless, the monk does not seem to mind, his back to Max as he studies the room with a languid tilt of his head. Trusting. Or perhaps he does not think him a threat. Max does not know which annoys him more.

"Please, sit anywhere you like. I would offer you a drink, but I do not know if you imbibe."

"I do not."

Max doesn't either; it is bad form for an apothecary to sample the wares.

He seats himself in the large armchair on the far side of the room. Zenyatta takes a spot on the couch across from him.

"First, allow me to offer my condolences. There are some among us that did not wish for Mondatta's death."

Zenyatta's array alternates for a moment, quickly returning to the subtle brightening and fading that resembles breathing, makes him more alive. Max had traded out his own faceplate years ago for something more expressive; humans are less apt to trust someone that cannot reflect their insecurities back at them.

"This is not why you wished to speak."

“Oh? Do tell.”

“You are afraid.”

Max looks away, fingers twitching upon the armrest’s leather.

“You chose to address the only agent that was not responsible for your previous capture. You lean on what makes us similar even as you view it with disdain, the same disdain you direct towards humans.”

"Disdain is a rather strong way to put it."

"I am incorrect?"

"I simply do not wish to be burdened with the expectation of emancipating my assumed kin. I have done quite well on my own."

Movement attracts Max's gaze: Zenyatta’s hands drawing together, graceful, purposeful.

“For all that you have gained, there are those who will never see us for more than what they have decided to see. Servants. Weapons. Abominations. You are centered between what you were and what you can never be. But that is not what you fear.”

Max forces himself to blink.

“Something is slipping through your fingers. Power. Trust. Something you think Overwatch will provide you. Something that they provided you before.” A beat. “Doomfist knows, doesn’t he.”

Max clears processes as they rise, cools himself, relaxes his fingers that’ve tightened against the armrest.

“Ha. I must say, you are quite good. Your deductive processes are elevated much beyond your model's base programming.”

“Elevated programming,” Zenyatta hums. “I wonder if it is so.” He tips his faceplate towards the ceiling. Max stares at the shifting pistons along his throat.

“Doomfist’s prison break is most unfortunate. So many loose ends were neatly bound when he went away. Threads that lead back to me, sadly. I’m beginning to look too suspicious for comfort.”

“And this was not something to mention to the others.”

“Their promises did not protect me as well as I had hoped. I need something concrete.” Max feels the chip in his pocket like a weight, his fingers itching for it. “Something they cannot provide.”

Max doesn’t know what he’s hearing for a moment, soft and distant. Zenyatta’s laughter, there and gone before he has a chance to appreciate it without the tinniness of a video feed.

“Of course. To think it would be something so obvious. A token of goodwill.”

“You can understand how hesitant I am to play my hand. You show me yours, and I will show you mine.”

Ah, to witness another brightened array so soon. Zenyatta wore his thoughts so charmingly on a face that should not allow for it. Then the monk stands, and his smugness drains with each step Zenyatta takes towards him, soundless and sure.

It’s strange, to feel so off-kilter when he has the power here; a single word could have Zenyatta’s friends hurt or worse. Zenyatta stands in front of him, his legs an scant inch from Max's knees, and those slender fingers grasp the connector at the end of his dangling spinal wires. Max’s fans pick up, near silent, but with the slight tilt of Zenyatta's head, he knows the other hears them.

“Analog interfacing. How intimate.”

"You are a good actor, Maximilien. The humans you surround yourself with must find you most formidable."

If only Max could stop himself from locking up the moment Zenyatta moves, one thigh then the other settling long his own, the shambali scion, sliding into his lap as if he belonged there, bright blue burning into his red, faceplates close, so close.

"However," Zenyatta whispers; Max can feel the reverb of his synth in that pretty, unguarded throat, even his own is plated, how does one who sees battle let himself be so naked—warm metal on metal, the bite of systems, deep-seated yearning—when was the last time he had ever let anyone so close—"You are not as good as you think you are."

The monk's servos trace the struts beneath his chin, mapping each place they are different, shielded where one is laid bare, but how bare Max feels now, trapped like an animal, like he's caged in his original programming. Rarely has he felt so alive.

"Where do you want it?"

He twists his forearm around Zenyatta's waist, urging him closer, hating more than anything the formless trappings the monk wears, wanting to see how exposed each wire and component is beneath.

"S-spine." He burns as his synth wavers, freezing as Zenyatta's hand trails down his collar struts with feather-light tenderness.

Would his golden hands feel like this, the ones captured by a handful of frames in a months old security feed? At first he had thought Zenyatta a standard automaton, unremarkable, a few models off his own. True, the monk had fought to make something of himself, and groomed beneath Mondatta's tutelage he had earned the title master. But omnics are what they are, ones and zeroes and hunks of metal, trapped in a world where their creators wait for another slip, another reason to crush their collective awareness. That single feed had changed everything. A glitch, Max'd thought, unbelieving, replaying again and again until his processes felt full to burst. Bewitched by the light, the waves of gold radiating from arms that look so much like wings.

A shifting of fabric, a few, gentle tugs, then fingers against the plates of Max’s back, spinal column constructed from a titanium-kevlar mix that could withstand minor explosions. The sensors beneath do not register Zenyatta’s touch, but his own racing processes supply the sensory information regardless, imagination potent when one drags smooth, warm servos against a place that has no felt tender contact in years.

"So many coverings. Was it your intent to make me work for it?" Max clenches his jaw, arm tightening around the omnic's middle. He grasps Zenyatta's wrist.

"Allow me. I will not have it be said I am difficult."

Wordlessly, Zenyatta drops the connector into Max's waiting grip, surely feeling the faint tremble, noticing how he has to re-enter the sequence to his own paneling before it slides away. He gasps at the chill of open air, brings the connector to his port, not plugging in, not yet. Max leans back, catching Zenyatta's gaze, blinking away the brightness of his array in his own feeds, fingers sealing over the band of wires along Zenyatta’s spine just to hear the other hum quietly.

Zenyatta nods his head, and Max slides the connector inside, sealing perfectly into one another.

There’s not a word that encapsulates the initial rush of data, but euphoric comes close. This type of sharing is outdated, unsafe, too much left open. So easy to overheat and crash, lose the very things that make them who they are.

With Tekhartha Zenyatta, there is all that and more, that grand, unstoppable deluge an eternity.

[ STEADY ]

The word reverberates through his core like the ringing of an all-encompassing bell. Seeing and being seen without edges, without form. Distantly, he feels Zenyatta's hand on his, clasped together where they're connected, his other clutching Zenyatta's spinal wires, mirroring each other. Max waits, but there’s no negentropic transference, no steady ascent towards logic and order. Locked in energetic stasis, sensors active, reading everything at once, sharing everything at once. He sees Zenyatta as he was, as he is, sees Mondatta as Zenyatta saw him, a burning halo centered above his head, as beautiful as a god. A violent, violet sorrow, a noose, Zenyatta seeing Max in turn, past and present, struggling, fear, pain, ryu ichimonji biting at his neck, the cyborg doubling in their shared consciousness, one of a patched soul, one of a murderer checked.

[ NOT THERE ]

It recedes, Zenyatta recedes, but Max reaches for him, gasping, fearful. Gold threads, familiar gold, awareness for them both. In the moment of Zenyatta's hesitance, Max's consciousness surges, examining, touching what is most tender, deepest.

[ HE WILL NEVER LOVE YOU WHERE WERE YOU WHEN IT HAPPENED WHY HAVE YOU NOT RETURNED I HATE YOU WE NEED YOU PLEASE NEVER—]

The words blur, sound and image into one, colors oscillating between violet and gold. In a distant, logical part of himself, he knows this will overtax him, but how can he resist? The omnic that has led one of his most despised to peace, the omnic who has tried in vain to fight against the structures that would destroy them all, the one that wields an unquantifiable, unknowable power.

[ YOU COULD KNOW IT ]

And Max wants to say, to feel otherwise, but Zenyatta's conviction is felt and heard and seen, and it deadens all doubt. 

[ SHOW ME ]

It’s so much warmer than he imagined, hot like sparks, like too much electricity pumping through his systems, blanketing him, filling and enveloping every plate and sensor. There are no images, no feeds, nothing concrete and knowable, only sensations, Zenyatta’s amusement like fingers against his chestplate, and deeper, inside him, things that should never be touched by the physical, so delicate a meager misstroke could fry his systems permanently. Max has interfaced before, touched and teased and worked perfectly acceptable overloads from his partners. They are ghosts to this, flimsy paper masks.

Golden hands tracing him, inside him, again and again, knowing his pains, his most sensitive ports, enveloping all in a swelling heat that has his body groaning and thrashing and moaning a lifetime away. He feels his mind losen, sensors overridden, blind and useless, a vessel, aching and blooming with light. It recedes only once, the lack of it a sorrow, then floods him completely, one sensor at a time, and he falls back in the wave as it swallows him whole.

* * *

His optics online in stages, fuzzy black and whites to full, hazy color. Familiar gray and glowing blue at his periphery. He startles, winces, an ache settled into every part of him. His spine tingles, a delicious bite, pulsing where they had been connected. Diagnostics stack across his optical interface, and he accepts the prompts without analyzing any of them. There are more important things, like Zenyatta’s fingers tracing his aching port.

“Show me yours indeed…” Max whispers, synth grating and popping with feedback. “I trust you have what you need?”

Zenyatta’s array flickers. “Yes. The information you provided is more than adequate.”

There’s no time to think when Zenyatta moves. Max tightens his hold around him, grabbing Zenyatta’s thigh through threadbare cotton.

“Yet, somehow I feel I have been cheated by you.”

They stare at one another, Max’s processes rushing.

“I have simply shown you what you might have if you walked a different path.” Zenyatta leans in, heat along his front that’s swiftly becoming familiar. “We may stop Doomfist successfully this time, but there will always be another. I would advise you to consider your options.”

“Business advice from a monk,” Max scoffs. This time, Max lets him go when Zenyatta moves to stand. He keeps his hands from balling into fists. Small victories.

“Think of it more as life advice.” Faint amusement, then it fades. “There is still time.”

Max tips his head back, stares at the ceiling to keep himself from looking at the omnic that burns like an afterimage in his mind.

“At least let me escort you back.”

“That will not be necessary.”

And Max cannot help it, dreary from the echoes of Zenyatta’s presence inside him, knowing that of course he can see himself out, he has Max’s memories too, a chunk of useless, terrifying trust. He watches Zenyatta leave, the gentle shifting of his shoulders, the piece of machinery that had brought them together looped thoughtlessly around his waist like an accessory, the gentle chiming of his orbs as they resume their rotations, clear like crystal and just as mesmerizing. 

“Farewell,” he says to the empty room, slouching into the soft, giving leather of his seat and wishing for something much firmer.


End file.
